My name is Raine. Most of you know that already, and most of you know I spend a lot of my time simping and writing for the internet.
But there's more to me than that.
This will be a longer post, possibly the longest personal post I've ever done. It will also have some serious detailed trigger warnings for things like SH, depression, suicidal ideation, and more along those lines. If any of those things are upsetting or triggering to you, please prioritize yourself and your mental health. It won't bother me, I promise.
So where do I begin?
Most of you have probably noticed I haven't been active on here for about a month now. The reason for that is simple, yet complicated at the same time: my mental state is not good.
Actually that's an understatement. It's going about as well as the orange man's presidency. In other words, not even a little bit good. Very, very bad. (I can't resist the urge to bully the Cheeto. Sorry. I'm not good at the whole feelings thing.)
But I wanted to share here. To urge you to get help if you need it.
So let's backtrack a little bit.
I was diagnosed with MDD, or Major Depressive Disorder at age 14 or 15. (I'm really bad with numbers... I think it was 15 though) . But I'm sure it has been around much, much longer. But the doctor said I was in remission, which basically means I was recovering. I was getting better.
Turns out, even doctors can be wrong. I was merely experiencing what most people call a "high". Not like a drug kind of high. It's more like feeling a temporary normalcy, at least for me. Little things don't set me off. My body doesn't hurt as much. I feel light, confident even. I can eat. I can socialize. It feels *good*.
And then it dropped again. A "low", if you will. And when it dropped, it hit me like a stack of bricks to the head. I couldn't get out of bed. I was having the worst nightmares. I couldn't eat-- it felt like every time I did, I was going to throw up. And... I hurt myself. Took a sharp steak knife and slid it really fast, numerous times across my shoulder.
I was fifteen. Still just a kid. I still have the scars from that day. I still remember starving myself, thinking I deserved a slow, painful death. I remember standing in the kitchen in the middle of the night, knife point directly on my chest, ready to drive it into my heart. I remember all of it. And I don't give a flying fuck if it's cringe. It's not cringe at all. It's my life on the line.
And it's gotten that bad again, if not worse. I do a lousy job at keeping secrets, so here's one for you: for the first time in years, I debated on eating a whole bottle of Prozac. I debated on going back to that kitchen with the steak knives and brutally slaughtering myself right by the door where everyone could hear me screaming. I felt like that's what I deserved. I deserve to rot in Hell for eternity. Because I took a job I didn't want with a shittastic supervisor. I left my friends and can't even visit them. I failed my permit test three times when BOTH of my brothers passed first try. I can't drive, can't function, can't cook or do chores or work without fucking up. I have a boyfriend who only wants something to do with me when it comes to my wallet or my mouth. Why should I keep living? Why should I, in a world that hates me, keep putting one foot forward, when all that's ahead are more problems?
And then it hit me: I needed help. Serious, professional help. So I called my PCP, my main doctor, to schedule a virtual appointment. I told her how I was feeling, and she basically said I was having a mental health crisis. There were a few options for me. I could admit myself to the hospital. I could see a psychiatrist for medicine management and therapy sessions, or I could roll over and give up. Kidding. The last one wasn't a real option. I chose option 2.
I do not have any updates yet, but I may come back to this post and add them. I have an appointment with my PCP on August 3rd, so there is that.
I got a signed poster from the VA of said fictional demon butler and encouraging words in a YouTube comment from the TikTok boy who didn't know I existed, after spilling my guts about my mental health. This is NOT helping my delusions.
Is it fair for a girl to go for the balls in a fight with a guy? Have you ever kicked a guy there?
I mean, that's a very nuanced question.
I don't think I've ever kicked anyone in the balls, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't do it. If I'm in a fight for my life, I'm going to do whatever it takes to survive, you know? And I was always taught eyes, throat, and balls are the places you want to attack if you're in legitimate danger.
That being said, if you're play-wrestling, just horseplaying, or even if someone just says something stupid, you shouldn't go for the balls BECAUSE it's a weaker zone. It's not fair to pull that move in a non-life threatening situation.
Tldr: yes, all's fair if you're fighting for survival. Otherwise, nope.
do you think sebastian had his own version of the “one hell of a” line before becoming a butler, and he just swapped out the noun depending on what he was pretending to be at the time?
he’s one hell of a loser and has been reusing the same joke for centuries
Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 (or more) people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3
